


Thinking Box

by bilboswaggins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Slice of Life, but just the middle where they're content to be an 'almost', general ust, like a scene in the middle of a large mutual pining sop fest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 17:46:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8855008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bilboswaggins/pseuds/bilboswaggins
Summary: "I find a concentrated atmosphere helps a concentration of thought. I have not pushed it to the length of getting into a box to think, but that is the logical outcome of my convictions."-Sherlock Holmes, The Hound of the Baskervilles.





	

It had been a long day at his practice, and John Watson slammed the door to his cab a little harder than he meant to as he got out in front of 221B. He waved in meek apology as the cab started driving away, the engine stuttering a little and the tires having a bit of difficulty starting up from the slick, snowy pavement.

The car’s problems, combined with the stains scrubbed from the roof of the car and the radio dial worn so much that the numbers were illegible, all pointed to the car being an old one of the driver. He was likely not well off and used to being so, with attempts to plan for the future but all too often bogged down by the work load of the present.

John smiled to himself, thinking all of this in the span of a second or two as he watched the car go. There were many perks to living with such a mind as Sherlock Holmes, but he had to admit, picking up his tricks and methods made his days slightly more interesting.

He walked to the door and pushed inside, not bothering to quiet his heavy footfalls as he trudged up the staircase. Holmes was probably home – he usually was – and he had long since learned that his keen ears could hear him coming whether he tried to be quiet or not.

The main room was quiet, the only sound a gentle ticking of a clock. John blinked as he removed his coat, and draped it over his usual chair.

“Hallo?” He called, looking around as he toed off his shoes.

Looking around, he noticed a medium sized box in the corner, plain and very new. His eyebrows pulled together as he looked at it, his eyes locked even as he turned his face toward the kitchen.

“Were… we expecting a washer? Stand heater? Evidence piles maybe?” He didn’t know where he was calling or even why – it seemed his flatmate wasn’t home.

“No. Though a stand heater would have been a nice way to kill two birds with one stone. Yours is just about to die.”

The voice was unquestionably Sherlock’s, no one else he knew could master the ironic sort of drawl that seemed to easily flow from him. But it was muffled somehow, like he was talking from the other room, or under a blanket.

“How do you know about the condition of my heater?” He asked to the room at large as he frowned, stepping further into it to try and suss out from where the voice had come.

“I haven’t stolen it if that’s what you’re implying. I happened to notice its drop in heating power the last time I went to wake you.”

The voice was definitely in the room, but it seemed impossible that someone as tall as Sherlock could hide so well. Unless-

“…Sorry, are you _inside_ that box?” John stared incredulously at the cardboard, envisioning him folding himself up to fit inside of it. It must have been a tight squeeze.

“Either that or I’ve gotten remarkably good at ventriloquism.”

John shook his head slightly to himself as he closed his eyes. This shouldn’t even surprise him, it wasn’t uncommon to come home to find Holmes doing something mad. At least squatting in a box wasn’t entirely self-destructive.

He walked to stand directly beside the box, and gently kicked it with his bare foot as he leaned on the arm of the nearest sofa.

“Ow.”

“Why on Earth have you squeezed yourself into a shipping box.”

The flaps of the box wiggled slightly as though its occupant was considering coming out, but the weight inside of it simply shifted and the box settled again, closed.

“I find that having a concentrated environment is helpful. It’s easier to think when I am in complete control of my surroundings, and this flat always seems a bit too large.”

“So you ordered a person-sized box.”

“The simplest solution to a simple problem.”

“How did you manage to shut yourself inside it?” John eyed the flaps with some curiosity, tapping them to test how tightly they were folded together. It seemed definitely sealed, and his tap was answered with one in turn from the inside. He pressed his lips together to stop a smile.

“Mrs. Hudson helped when she came to check and see if I’d died.”

“I’m sure some part of her found that cathartic.”

“You’re welcome to assist next time.”

“There are many days I’d love to shut you up inside of a box.”

John stood, shuffling away to rummage through his desk.

“Incidentally, what time is it now?”

“Quarter to six,” he said absently, moving objects in the drawers around until he found what he was looking for.

“Already? I’ve been in here for almost eight hours, then.”

“You must be losing your touch if it’s only been eight,” he teased, coming back to the box and kneeling beside it.

“I’d have kept going if you hadn’t barged in on me.”

“Saved you from suffocation, more like.” He uncapped the permanent marker and began to scribble.

“I still have an hour thirty seven minutes of oxygen in here before I suffocate,” came the matter-of-fact voice.

It fell silent as John finished stroking the last of the letters, and he stood back as he capped the pen, admiring his work.

“…Did you really write ‘Sherlock’s Thinking Box’ on the outside of this.”

“I’m impressed you could tell from in there.” John snickered, tossing the marker onto the desk unceremoniously as he shuffled off for the kitchen to get some tea started.

The sounds of cardboard moving around told him the flaps were opening, and with a grunt, Sherlock arose from the box, face slightly flushed and curly hair standing up in every direction. “I know your handwriting, of course that’s what you were doing,” he said, mostly to himself it seemed as he climbed out of the box to look at the writing himself.

“It’s a nice box,” John hummed, leaning on the frame to the kitchen entryway as he looked at Sherlock, stretching out his spine and arms with quiet pops. His movement pulled his shirt up, and his eyes darted down to look at the pale strip of flesh for an instant before they snapped back up again. “Really ties the room together.”

“What it really needed was a label.” Sherlock looked at him with thinly veiled amusement. “Now since you’ve broken the flow of my concentration I guess that’s me done for the night. It can wait until morning, anyway.”

“What was it you were working on?” John retreated into the kitchen, opening a drawer to pull out the tea bag he wanted, and getting one of Sherlock’s favourites as well for good measure.

“Oh, some politician is being blackmailed with photos of his adultery,” Sherlock yawned, following him in and standing close to the bubbling kettle. “He has no idea it’s his daughter doing it of course, or that she plans to run off to France when she’s extorted enough money from him.”

“And you figured all that out from staring at the inside of a box all day.” He tried not to smirk, but didn’t quite succeed, and he caught a twinkle in Sherlock’s eye as he took the whistling kettle and filled a mug for each of them.

“Don’t knock the box until you’ve tried it. It’s remarkable for clearing one’s thoughts and focusing on one single thing entirely. The rest of the world just falls away.” His words were plain enough, but his tone dropped slightly as he accepted the cup, his long fingers lingering against John’s for a moment. He felt his heart stutter.

“But get your own,” he continued, breaking whatever moment just passed as he stepped away again, and out the door into the living room. “It says right on it, ‘ _Sherlock’s_ Thinking Box,’ not ‘John’s.’”

John exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding, chuckling and shaking his head as he followed him. “I think I’ll do fine without a second box in the living room.”

He flopped down beside him in their chairs, and instinctively switched on the television, putting on some mindless TV show from the channel they had been watching together the previous night.

It was easy to sink into the routine of a day’s end, sitting beside Sherlock and watching nothing as the weights and worries of the day all seemed to melt away. It was cozy, warm, routine but not without its occasional surprises.

He smiled to himself as he sipped his tea, and he could almost swear that out of the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock do the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for its short length - I usually write way longer than this - but this is my first foray into Sherlock and I'm anxious to get them right before I try anything bigger. I was inspired by a line in the book, so I was compelled to write my favourite iteration of John and Sherlock taking it a few steps too far. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this silly little ficlet!


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